I don’t like many things about myself. Actually, I hate everything about myself, except for my writing. As my self-loathing has reached critical mass over the past 5 years the only thing keeping me grounded was being able to get my feelings out on paper. I think my writing is very dark, but it’s true of who I am.
Maybe that’s why it sucks that the first time I let my Mom read a piece of my poetry she hated it.
I had my journal out while visiting my parents over the weekend, and my Mom noticed and wanted to know what I was doing. I told her I was writing, and she got really excited. You see, when I was in elementary school I used to write poems. I wrote sappy, shitty poems. The type of poems where they give you a prompt, and a structure, and you fill in the blanks with words. My Mom and Dad loved those poems, but those poems straight up fucking sucked. They were the billshit writing of a 10 year old kid. I wrote those poems in class because it was for a grade, not for myself. Those poems didn’t reflect a single piece of how I thought of myself.
So when my Mom read my poems and didn’t react, I knew I was in for some shit. She handed my journal back to me and faked a smile. I thought she’d throw some fake ass compliments my way and leave me be, but I was wrong. She didn’t even pretend to like what I wrote. She told me she preferred my earlier poems, because they sounded so much happier. I said I don’t remember any of those poems, because none of them ever reflected how I felt. She kept that fake smile plastered on her face, told me she thinks I’d feel better if I tried writing something that sounded happier, and than left.
I have to admit, I didn’t expect that. I never share my writing with those around me, because I never knew how they’d react, and I’m afraid of being told my writing sucks. I write under a fake name that holds meaning to only me, and I post on a blog. But I realize now the reason I never shared my work is because, deep down, I’ve always known it was shit. Because this writing, it’s 100% me. It’s honest and raw. I never sugarcoat a damn thing. I tell it exactly like it is.
But I’m an idiot. If the writing is 100% me, than of course it’s going to be shit! I’m a fucking piece of shit, so why wouldn’t writing about who I am give off that same vibe? I’m a fucking loser. I have good reason to hate who I am. So anything I do will reflect that. It shows in how fucking fat I am. It shows in how fucking lazy I am. It shows in how dumb, how inferior, how ignorant I am. And it shows in how shitty my writing is.
I had 1 escape, 1 thing tying me down. So long as I had my words, I could pretend I was confessing my sins, and I could trick myself into thinking I deserve to live. I’m wrong about that. These words only show how low and pathetic I am. These words reveal to the world that I deserve to suffer. These words are 100% me, and that means they have no chance to ever be considered anything other than disgusting.
I’ve lied to myself long enough. I keep on putting of the ending, but no more. No more arbitrary dates or goals. No more giving myself days or months or years to fix it. No more setting a timeframe to get things in order before I go. It’s high time I shut the fuck up and just do it.
Everything I write is 100% me. As such, every word I have ever written is complete shit. I’m not waiting for the New Year. I’m not giving myself a silly goal, like being below a certain weight by my birthday, or having completed some work/life goal within the next month. No more excuses. I have no value to add to the world. My life actually sucks away from the potential of everybody around me. I thought I was a 0 sum person, getting by on the knowledge that at least I wasn’t creating a negative impact on the world.
But I am.
And it needs to end.
I need to end.
And I’m going to end.
Thank you, everybody, for putting up with me. I know the future is bright for this world, because there are so many kind and wonderful people out there. And I won’t get in the way of your progress anymore.
Thank you, and goodbye.